Entangled
by equisetum
Summary: She follows Lauren’s directions. Curiosity overcomes enmity as usual. And what she reads only fuels that rage inside her that has been itching for a target. If she remembered, she would know who to hate and why. Postseason 3.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was written after season 3, with spoilers for 3x10 Remnants and 3x22 Resurrection. I assumed Sydney discovered something rather different than we find out in season 4: a conspiracy involving those closest to her, concerning her early training and recruitment in SD-6. As usual, please read and review!

**Entangled**

He's back in custody, but really, what has she gained? There's still a hole the size of a train wreck in her head. Lauren is dead. But Vaughn is twisted now that he's felt the rage her father felt; that she has felt. She hid her own dark shadows from him, loved him for his light, his relative innocence that's gone now. And really, if she wanted a bad guy she'd choose someone more ambiguously gray, as cool and featureless as forged steel.

Sark's lips against hers, believing she was Lauren, hoping later to have Lauren wearing Sydney's face. While all this time Lauren was still screwing Vaughn who hoped to be with Sydney. How entangled can four people be? If she wanted to be honest with herself, she would admit that she had enjoyed it: both his soft lips on hers and that sense of power over him. She was playing the game and getting away with it.

She follows Lauren's directions. Curiosity overcomes enmity as usual. And what she reads only fuels that rage inside her that has been itching for a target. If she remembered, she would know who to hate and why. Suddenly her friends from two years prior, her friends again since her return, are her enemies. How many times can she tumble through the looking glass? She wants to cry but everything is dry as cotton balls.

"Sydney…"

Her dad's voice. She knows now that he's as bad as her mother. They all are.

In a hotel overlooking the Rhone she drinks vodka straight from the one ounce bottles in the mini bar and shivers though the room is perfectly warm. She rests her head against cool glass and wonders where it all went wrong, why her, how could he do that to his own daughter, how could they pretend all that time that they were her friends, her allies…

Her enemies have been more honest.

People talk about closure. Closure belongs in a logical world where causality reigns. Not in a place where a butterfly's flight results in a monsoon half a world away and a fifteenth century prophet scatters a puzzle across the globe that rules the life of a twenty-first century woman.

She wants out. Perhaps she wants revenge more.

And there he is, walking down the boulevard in a light morning mist while she plays with the croissant on her plate and drinks terrible, bitter black coffee from hundred-year old china. He meets her gaze from the sidewalk outside the small hotel and smiles. Sydney wonders if he sees her pain, if his glee is at the expense of her suffering. Another minute finds him standing at her table.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"It's at your own risk, Sark," she sneers back at him, hoping to break that civil exterior.

"Yes, well…" he flags down the waiter and orders breakfast while Sydney fumes.

"I could report you. My father," and that last word came out with unintended force, "should still be in the area. I'm sure he'd love to get his hands on you."

"Somehow I doubt you'd contact him at this juncture."

There are pinpricks of heat in the back of her eyes. She bites her tongue to keep from crying, to keep the proper rage in place. The waiter arrives with Earl Grey tea and a croissant for Sark, and scurries off quickly, sensing the strained relationship between the two of them.

"I could arrest you myself. Or just kill you."

"I'm armed, if you had any doubts," Sark practically cuts her off. "And before you try anything rash, you should know you are at present in the crosshairs of a world-class sniper."

Silence followed. She scanned the building across the street and found a window slightly ajar on the second floor. Sydney took two more bites of her croissant, though she almost gagged at the smell of food. Sark drank his tea as if it was only natural that an international terrorist and a United States intelligence agent breakfast together in Europe.

"I killed Lauren," she blurted out, a low blow, but so satisfying. Sark stiffened momentarily.

"I tortured Tippin and had Francine killed." Sydney's turn to steel herself against the memories. She didn't cry, though, she'd never cry. He continued as if their little outburst never occurred: "But I didn't come here to reminisce."

"Then why are you here?"

"I have a proposal for you." Sark interpreted her silence as a cue to continue. "We have several enemies in common: your father, your former handler, much of the CIA. They've toyed with your life since you were born, Sydney. You deserve revenge."

"You came here to take advantage of my suffering."

"Don't trivialize this offer, Sydney." Now his voice came out more desperate, more genuine, though his face retained the haughty mask it always had. How entangled can four people be? Sark had just added another layer of complexity to her life. Her window of escape was closing fast, and he just had to try and bring her back into the game. "Through our alliance, we could construct a formidable empire."

And my defection would be punishment enough for the people I used to love. It went unspoken between them: that her desire not to work for the CIA was greater than her desire to work with him, that her desire for revenge was greater than her desire to be happy. That perhaps…

"I'm never going to be happy, am I?"

"That's rather off topic, is it not?"

"Yeah. I guess it is."


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: Thank you for reading and reviewing. This chapter contains the death of a major character (well, actually two). So if that's going to totally ruin your day, read no further.

**Landing**

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The first target was a mutual endeavor: Arvin Sloane. She contacted him personally, presumably to ask about Irina, about Jack, and her sister, his daughter. Another intricate web. Midway through dinner she excused herself to use the ladies' room, almost flinching as she felt his eyes follow the sway of her hips away from the table.

"May I join you?"

He turned at the sound of the suave British accent. Surprised? Sark slid into the seat Sydney vacated just moments before.

"Mr. Sark. What a surprise. I presume your presence here is not mere coincidence."

"A man like you should know better than to believe in coincidence."

"The world is such a small place. Some things still happen by chance."

"Yes. Well, moving on….this is a vial of botulinum toxin," Sark recited, holding up a small glass container, emptying the contents into Sloane's glass. "It contains enough toxin to kill three or four people. We can do this one of two ways. You can enjoy a last glass of this excellent vintage Bordeaux, and die quickly and painlessly. Alternately, I can shoot you."

The men faced each other across the table, old and young, one withered, one entering his prime. Sloane reached for his glass.

"Cheers, then."

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They moved on to the next kill quickly, taking a red-eye from Vienna back to the States. She had barely any time to think about Arvin Sloane's death. When she did, the only feeling she could summon was a vague relief. He would never have the chance to ruin another person's life as he had hers. And some excitement over the eight-figure balancein her bank account. She and Sark had split Sloan's assets between the two of them, accessing them with the codes found in his wallet.

Arvin Sloane was easy. His was death was justifiable, clean. The next target was infinitely more personal.

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She killed Vaughn: pulled the trigger while Sark watched from the shadows. And she cursed herself for being so blind, as blinded as her father was by Irina, by the pretense of love. Momentarily, she wondered if he felt anything towards her, if the illusion of love was ever as real for him as Irina once claimed it was for her.

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Drinking coffee at midnight she flipped through the channels on TV in her hotel room. She cried, but it came out choked and bitter. There was a knock on the door, and through the peephole she saw Sark on the other side. She opened the door, and watched him enter without a word.

"You did well."

"I don't need your approval."

"It was intended as praise."

She filled her mug again and sat in the chair by the window, staring at the city's sky line.

"I don't think I want to do this anymore."

"Ah…the beauty of regret."

"I don't regret it," she snapped back.

"Then why the sudden change of heart?"

"You cocky son of a bitch. I just killed the love of my life, my father is next, and you're asking why I hesitate?"

"I thought Danny was the love of your life. Oh, wait, or was it Noah? At best—"

"Don't talk to me about—"

"...at best that was the third love of your life and certainly—"

"...about love. You're not even capable of the emotion!"

"...and certainly not the last!"

They were both standing, shouting over each other. It was the first time Sydney had seen Sark lose his cool exterior. He was livid, cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed in anger.

"I am not incapable of love."

"Lauren? She was a cold-hearted killer."

"You just murdered a man you once loved. I don't think you can claim the moral high ground anymore," he sneered in reply.

"Get out of my room."

"I am the one bankrolling this operation. Technically, it's my hotel room."

"Get out or I will kill you next."

"I'll give you some time to collect yourself. Though I hardly think you're capable of besting me. We leave in two hours."

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Two hours later she was drunk again on cheap vodka but packed and ready to go. Surely Sark noticed: her balance was off and her breath reeked. But he kept his thoughts to himself, for once, lips pursed and crooked, eyes like stone. Once alone in the plane, however, he opened up.

"Surely you can afford better vodka than that."

Sydney pointedly ignored him as she walked towards the back of the plane and locked herself inside the cramped bathroom. Kneeling over the toilet, she retched until only bile came up, and several more times after that. Until her stomach was as empty and aching as her brain. Then she rinsed her mouth and re-entered the main cabin. Sark was waiting in front of the door, a silk handkerchief extended towards her. Her skin was pale, eyes flat and dull.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Sydney chose not to examine that oddly civil exchange. She curled up across three seats and slept fitfully, interrupted by nightmares of dental procedures in Taipei and Vaughan's shocked face, the spray of blood as the bullet hit.

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"Hello?"

Her dad's voice sounded old. She longed to forget everything that had happened, to be wrapped in his embrace like when she was young, naively believing herself safe and sound. A short sob escaped her throat.

"Sydney? Is that you? Sydney, let me explain things. Let me tell you what really happened. When I first—"

Another strangled sob stretched over the line.

"Sydney, I love you. I always have. I always will. Please—"

She hung up the phone, trembling and crying.

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Three days late. What is stress or pregnancy? If pregnancy, she had just killed the father of her unborn baby, condemned her child to never know the joy of a family, a mother and a father.

No matter what had happened after—the assumption of death corrected twenty years later with a bullet in her shoulder, her father's smiles turned into a mask of regret—they had been a family once. Home-cooked meals and encouraging words, a brief kiss as her mom—as Laura—put away the groceries; their displays of affection used to embarrass her so much as a child.

She caffeinated in the morning, drank coffee or popped pills in the bathroom when she felt herself lagging, all to stay awake, stay alert. And then, when all the world was dark and still except her thoughts, she drugged herself into a dreamless sleep for a few scant hours.

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay, if you're not too mad at me for killing Sloane (hah!) and Vaughn (sorry), I just wanted to say thank you for reading and reviewing, and this is the last chapter.

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As they sat in the darkness, waiting for her father's return, Sydney pondered that she had never been in his apartment, in the twelve years she had lived in LA, so near to him. The place suited him: downtown in one of the high-rises. It was all dark wood paneling and understated furniture, the kitchen done in dark granite, the walls a muted cream. No way could he afford this on his CIA salary.

There were no personal touches anywhere, nothing out of place. But as she rifled through his desk and his nightstand she found pictures of herself, report cards from elementary school, and even a few embarrassing scribblings she had drawn before it all went to hell.

Sark didn't look around. He just sat in the living room with his gun gripped by his side, and his laptop set in front of him, showing the feed from the building's security cameras.

Under the false bottom of a drawer in his dresser she found pictures of his wedding to Laura, what she assumed to be his wedding ring, and ironically, a copy of the police report on her mother's 'death'.

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"Don't get too comfortable, Sydney," Sark chided her an hour later, as she heated a can of soup on her father's stove and drank orange juice from the carton. There wasn't much in the fridge, but she found a stack of carry-out menus in one of the drawers.

"Shut up and watch the feed," she sniped back.

"Aren't you going to offer me something to eat?"

"No."

"So inhospitable. Really, I think you learned better manners from your parents."

"Like what? How to kill a man politely? With a smile on my face? I think you're much better at that, being a total sociopath and all."

"Sydney, I'm wounded."

She transferred the Progresso soup to a bowl and sat in the leather chair across from him.

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"He's in the elevator. Three minutes, at most," Sark finally broke the silence.

Sydney set her empty bowl down on the coffee table and pulled her gun from the holster at her thigh. She felt nervous, unsettled. Her companion seemed as calm as ever.

"He's my father, you know."

"It really doesn't mean much."

"Not to you. You already killed yours."

"And I'd do it again."

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There was the sound of keys jangling, a doorknob turning, and the squeak of un-oiled hinges. Jack Bristow smelled food as he walked into his apartment, and knew immediately that something was wrong.

"Mr. Bristow, so glad you could join us," drawled Sark, his Beretta leveled at her father's heart.

"Sark," he acknowledged. Looking further into the room he found his daughter perched on his reading chair, nervously tapping her handgun against the arm. "Sydney?"

"We'd like some information before we do anything rash. Where did Irina hide the Manifesto?" continued Sark. Sydney was silent.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His voice was stone and ice. So different from how he used to speak to her, as a child, reading to her at night, tucking her into bed.

With the silencer on the bullet barely made a sound as it tore through his thigh. Painful, but hardly lethal. Jack fell to his knees as the leg buckled beneath him, and clutched a hand over the wound. Sydney jumped at the sound, her face betraying more pain and anguish than her father's.

"We can do this all night," Sark continued.

"And I still won't tell you anything," Jack spoke through gritted teeth.

Sark aimed again, at his shoulder. It was Sydney who spoke next.

"Stop it. Put the gun down, Sark, now!"

She was on her feet, torn between rage and bitter regret. Sark turned to face her, his gun still aimed at the other Bristow in the room.

"Sydney, what are you doing?" He sounded more annoyed than anything.

Jack took the opportunity to grab the knife under the stool at his left, and sprang at Sark. They grappled, Sark's gun dropped to the floor, Sydney afraid to shoot lest she hit her father by mistake, until finally there was blood dripping down Jack's arm. A sob wrenched out of Sydney's throat and she ran towards the two. But Jack stood steady, and Sark slowly fell to the ground, puzzled by the knife sticking from his chest.

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"Daddy, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I was so mad but I didn't want…not really…I couldn't, I mean….how could I even think of it? I'm so sorry…"

He held her in his arms on the couch, rocking her back and forth as she sobbed against him. "Shhh, Sydney, calm down. It's okay. Nothing happened."

"He shot you. I let him….I was….we were here to…."

Sark lay dead and cold on the floor, the puddle of blood congealing around him.

"It doesn't matter, sweetheart. You didn't do anything."

"And Sloane, and Vaughn….I'm so sorry…."

He had wondered about that, those two deaths so close together, so intricately involved in betrayal at the highest level. Their absence might make things easier for his investigation.

"Let me show you something, Sydney."

She sat with her arms around herself, still crying, as he retrieved a folder from a safe behind a landscape painting in the office, and set it into her shaking hands. And as she read this folder, this classified document, she discovered the deception went even deeper. Just as they had worked as double agents within SD-6, Jack was still playing the game, to try and topple a conspiracy that reached the highest levels of government.

"It was too dangerous. I couldn't let you get dragged into that again, against your will, not again. I was trying to protect you, Sydney. I love you more than anything."

"Oh Dad…"

"But now you know. Now you're a target, too."

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End file.
